Robert Alexander - Rasputin's Daughter

“We will sprinkle it liberally into the pastries and his wine,” said the doctor.

The plan was simple. Promising a party, we would pick up Rasputin after midnight and take him to the palace on the Moika. We would lead him through the side door and down into the basement, into that cozy little dining room. As he waited for the supposed festivities to begin, he would feast on the sweets and wine. Death would come quickly.

I honestly confess I was not in favor of harming Rasputin’s daughter as well. Nor did I want to be any part of the plan against the royal family. By that, I mean just what should be done with Aleksandra Fyodorovna and the Emperor, whether or not she should be locked up and he…he…

Well, that was a matter for the senior grand dukes, you know, the Tsar’s uncles. That was family business. Getting rid of Rasputin was mine.

Papa might have been exhausted, but I was famished.

When we entered our flat, my father dropped his coat on the hall floor and walked in a daze to his bedroom, mumbling that he was going to sleep for two whole days. I stood for a moment in the front hall, still trying to absorb my father’s actions and all that had transpired at the palace. After a few moments I hung up my coat and headed to the kitchen, where Dunya waited to do what she did best, comfort us with food.

“What would you like, milaya maya?” My dear.

“Fish,” I replied.

Amazed by my father’s special abilities, I sat down at the dinner table and ate every different type of fish we had in the house. One after the other, Dunya brought out cod soup, herring in sour cream, jellied fish heads, and finally a piece of sturgeon fried in fresh butter. The only utensil I used was a spoon, everything else I ate with my fingers, proud of the milky broth and juices that dribbled down my chin. Even though I didn’t really want any, I took a piece of black bread, careful to break it with my hands, just like the Apostles. And just like those who couldn’t afford utensils, let alone a napkin, I used the dark, sour crust to wipe my chin and blot my lips. When Dunya offered me a sweet warm compote of stewed apples and raisins, I paused in thought. What would Papa do? He hated sweets-“Scum!” he always called them-but was compote really the equivalent of a flaky cream-filled French pastry or magnificent Austrian torte? Not sure, I declined. After all that fish I didn’t want to do a thing to darken my soul.

Varya sat opposite, her elbows on the table, her blunt little chin in her hands, and just stared at me. After a few minutes, she brushed aside her bangs and scratched her nose.

She asked, “So what happened, Maria? Is the Heir dead?”

I shook my head.

“Then he’s all right? Papa fixed him?”

I nodded.

“Xhorosho. I thought he would.”

There was nothing to say, no way I could explain to her how amazing the healing had been, so I just ate in silence, my little sister watching me as I slurped up my food, fish by fish. I hadn’t witnessed a miracle at the palace, but I had witnessed something miraculous, of that I had no doubt. I had no idea just how Papa was able to beckon the glory of God down from the heavens and into that suffering boy, how he was able to accomplish what no other-no priest, monk, scientist, or doctor-had ever been able to do. But he had and he did. Somehow, the strength of my father’s character and belief had not simply enabled Aleksei to find serenity and peace but had inspired the boy’s own faith in the power of his body and in his God. No wonder the Tsar and Tsaritsa’s trust in my father was unshakable. How could it not be when Papa had saved their son over and over again? As amazing as it seemed, it was now perfectly clear to me that the Heir would have been dead long ago without my father’s aid.

Thinking of my own path in life and how I might be able to help others, I wondered if I shouldn’t become a bride of Christ. As I chewed on a soft yet slightly crunchy fish head, I considered abandoning this life and seeking the greater glory of God in a women’s monastery. I would give up my fancy citified name of Maria and return to the real me, Matryona, the country girl of the far provinces. Yes, I would kiss my father and little sister good-bye, perhaps make a trip home to say farewell to Mama and my brother, Dmitri, and then I would seek out a place to take my vows. I definitely didn’t want a place in the capital-Smolny, say-or anywhere nearby. Better something distant, the farther east the better. Yes, definitely something removed from the European influences sweeping our nation like polluted waters. A women’s monastery hidden on an island in the middle of a lost Siberian lake would do just fine. There were many monasteries sprinkled across the length of Siberia, all the way to the Kamchatka Peninsula and the Bering Sea, and the best place would be one accessible for only a few months a year, a place where the roads and the rivers were open only during the short summer months. Being cut off from the world would encourage prayer and introspection. Surely my parents wouldn’t be against my taking the vows. And since Sasha was gone-what if we never saw each other again?-life as a nun would be far better than marrying here in the capital and becoming one of the petit bourgeoisie, obsessed with the proper address, proper hat and dress, and requisite social standing. I really had no choice, now I thought about it. If I stayed and married here in Petrograd, I could only imagine the money and invitations people would shower upon me, all in the hope of gaining access to my father, which would in turn put them that much closer to the throne. How easy that would be. And how horrid.

I looked up when I’d eaten every last bit of fish, only to realize that my sister was no longer sitting there. When I carried my dishes into the kitchen, Dunya was not to be found either, not at the stove, nor on her little cot tucked behind the curtain. Setting my dishes into the porcelain sink, I glanced at the clock ticking away on the wall. After eleven. Not so late, particularly for this household, but it seemed that sleep in this sleepless city had finally and blessedly come to our flat.

I was just rolling up the sleeves of my dress to start washing my dishes when I heard a slight, discreet movement at the rear door. I stopped still. Someone started knocking gently, a sound so soft it might even have been a mouse scratching at the wood. But, no, I heard the rustle of clothing on the back landing. At this hour I suspected it was probably Prince Felix, who was sure to start pounding until he gained entry-after all, when had a Yusupov ever been turned away by anyone anywhere?

Then it occurred to me that it might be someone else altogether. Praying for this, I ran to the door.

“Kto tam?” Who’s there?

The longest moment passed before a deep voice replied, “Me.”

A silly grin blossomed on my face. “And what do you want at so late an hour?”

“To come in.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m desperate to see you.”

“Promise?”

“With all my heart.”

I glanced quickly over my shoulder. Seeing no sign of my father or Dunya, I did it. I turned the lock. I opened the door. And Sasha came into our home and into my arms. Without a bit of hesitation, without a single word, we fell into each other’s arms. I tilted my head slightly to the side, closed my eyes, and felt what I’d wanted so very much, his lips upon mine. An exhilarating flush of warmth filled my head, my stomach. It seemed to last both forever and yet only a fleeting moment, that kiss, that embrace. All of me seemed to rush into him, and all of him certainly flooded into my entire body. He held me with an intensity I’d never experienced, his strong hands pressing into my back, pulling me against his hard chest. Then I felt his entire body tremble.